The Big Mountain: Not So Empty
by docs pupil
Summary: The Courier has won the Battle of Hoover Dam. He now aims to better the world by rebuilding the Big Mt. in order to restore the world. With the help of Arcade, Boone, and various faces known through the Wastes, the Courier will attempt to rebuild what was lost.
1. In the Beginning

_Author's Note: All thanks goes to the enormous generosity of_ _ **MykalWuzHere**_ _for allowing a re-write based on their story of the same name. I hope I can do it justice with my smattering of artistic liberties._

Amidst the carnage and death of the most glorious battle the Mojave Wasteland hasn't seen in decades, the Courier slowly makes his way across Hoover Dam past the punctured and mutilated corpses of hundreds of defeated Legion soldiers. He stops only to watch the bright orange sun setting in the west, not daring to think of anything than his shared victory for the time being. When his piece of mind makes him restless for something more, he shuffles along the concrete Pre-War attraction, the soles of his worn boots scuff along the broken asphalt, his feet disturbing as just many bullet casings. They decorate the ground like hot, metal confetti from a horrid parade of destruction. He drags himself toward the old guest center of the dam, ignoring the clinking of his footsteps along the way.

The Courier opens the door to the building finding two Rangers sitting at the farther benches tending to their wounds. They stop for a brief moment and look up. Even through their weary frowns and curt nods, he sees in their eyes that they're grateful. _He_ had aided the New California Republic, as a whole, in the Second Battle of Hoover Dam. _He_ had lead them to a decisive overthrow of the dictator Caesar and his society of slavery. And yes, they were grateful to _him_ , but as he's heard so many times before, what is the cost of their winning, and how long would it take them to become a force unable to be reasoned with?

He pushes those little bits of blasphemy to the side, leaning against the semi-circular counter, a carefully folded note in hand.

The soldier tending the large desk greets him in a snappy fashion. "It's an honor, Sir."

"Give this to whom it may concern," he says, sliding the note in his direction. With the young soldier's silent acknowledgment, he makes his way out to the familiar wastes, cutting through the aftermath of the "little war". Even as he traverses over and across the slopes and boulders toward the setting sun, the smells of still burning gunpowder and disemboweled bodies overwhelms his senses. The Courier presses a rag to his face, suppressing a series of dry heaves.

As was his way before, he walks the lonely broken roads to the remnants of Boulder City. "Odd," he mumbles to himself. "Still hardly anybody here." Shrugging, he lightly steps over the hunks of brick and glass, finding just the right place to think in the absolute quiet. Upon the rubble of a former two story shop, he sits, turning over both the piece of dusty brick in his hands as well as his surfacing thoughts from earlier.

Even during the battle, something small and niggling never settled right in his bones. Was it every layman's opinion about the NCR swimming about his exhausted nogging, or was it him over-thinking things again?

"But the battle's already won. I've made my mark in history, I left the great city of New Vegas in a burgeoning government's capable hands." He now addresses the brick in his dirty hands. "What more is there for me, then?" With a sigh, the young man tosses the debris off to the side. "I can still aid people. They'll, at least, still need me for a time to come." The hero stands, clapping the dust off his hands. "I know what must be done." Resigning to the only obvious alternative left to him, he reaches into his inventory satchel, pulling out the Transportalponder device.

In an instant of blinding blue light, he teleports onto the balcony of the SINK. The view, whether it be through eyes well-rested, or dangerously drooping, always gives him a sense of awe. He runs his fingers over the familiar blue force field, the static dancing around his fingertips. The feeling, however, subsides under a tidal wave of mounting tensing mixed in with his tiredness. "Here goes nothing."

Resolute in his new convictions, the Courier turns on his heel and on through the metal door, where he's bombarded by the voices of the various artificial personalities.

Always the first to greet him is the SINK's Central Intelligence Unit. "A most rapturous good morrow on your return to your domicile, Sir. I trust you shall find things in order and the riffraff contained."

He makes a bee line for the axillary bedroom, disposing of the usual pleasantries.

"Will Sir be staying long," the Unit asks.

"Yes, but..." He thinks on his words a touch longer, finding the hidden spark of inspiration while unlatching the various plates of his Elite Riot Gear. "I think I will rebuild. Not only to better myself, but the world as we know it."

"Very good, Sir."

He places them in the middle locker, removing his found scientist scrubs to change. "If I can rebuild, I can help," the weary man mumbles to himself tugging at his coat sleeves.

The agonizing tension he had been so keen to hide envelopes him. The Courier plops on the edge of his unmade bed cupping his shaking hands over his face. To ignore his spreading migraine he concentrates on something trivial. "My hands," he mentally notes. "Still shaking from the battle." The young man clenches his eyes tightly, willing away the pain. He drops his hands away from his face, feeling the tension die down as fast as it came up.

To curb his urge to sleep, he pops a couple of Mentats from the disposable tin, willing his strength into his legs to carry him across to where the Sink sits in quiet dismay. He splashes cool water onto his face, washing away the dirt and blood of Hoover Dam and it's invaders. "Eww, the blood! The dirt! Why must you be so...disgusting," the Sink exclaims in horror.

Ignoring its cries of utter distress, the Courier notices, even after being away for a spell, his little self-sustaining garden is living up to its namesake.

"That's not really what I want to accomplish," he amends. "I want...something more. Something worthy of remembrance for centuries to come."

He paces in between the planter boxes, reacquainting himself with the various plants still blooming healthily in their fertilized soils.

"Wanna make some sweet, sweet green, baby," the Biological Research Station chimes to the room full of edible blooms.

The Courier shakes his head, removing a bottle of purified water from the refrigerator. He presses the chilled bottle to his aching forehead in an attempt to keep his aches at bay.

It was then his second epiphany hits him like a Pre-War train. "Don't just rebuild, rebuild Big Mt."

He barrels his way into the central room, directing the Auto-Doc to give him a thorough exam. Once his ailments have been dealt with, he scoops up one of the many clipboards not yet processed by the Book Chute, and makes a large-lettered note at the top of the front sheet: _CONTACT ARCADE AND BOONE_.

"I won't sit helpless from the sidelines and watch as another war comes to me, _I_ will create the new technologies to become the next super power of the Wastes."


	2. Things Never Go As Planned

The Courier wakes with a start, his forehead damp with sweat and his mind racing with new ideas. He throws his feet over the side of the bed, reaching for the blank clipboard and pencil on the metal nightstand. The young man scribbles down his broken ideas hastily before they become lost to the abyss of his mind. Keeping his nose to the clipboard, he saunters into the central room of the SINK, barely dodging Muggy, the miniaturize Securitron. When the storm of inspiration finally dies down to a drizzle, he chews on the end of his pencil, mentally grasping at the disjointed remnants of a thousand whispers.

"Just say the word, Citizen, and I can have those seditious ideas eradicated! They're clearly making you lose your mind," the Book Chute reminds the man of the house cheerily. "Stay loyal, citizen!"

The all too busy Courier takes no notice of the mechanical personalities chattering away around him. Within the short span of three minutes, he finds himself overwhelmed by notes and footnotes of information that he has no idea what to do with. He groups the papers onto separate clipboards according to the most frequently used idea thus far.

Once satisfied with his rudimentary organization, the Courier summons a newly built Big Mountain style Eye-bot with a few presses of his Pip-Boy dials. After a brief pause, the blue and purple-highlighted robot hovers in through the outside door, awaiting its master's commands with a series of curt beeps.

"Number," the Courier sneaks a peek at the painted digit on its right side. "Four."

It repeats its original greeting.

"Activate: Messenger Protocol. Status: Priority Alpha."

It gives a little jump up and down in acknowledgment.

"I need you to deliver two notes to people out in the Mojave Wasteland. Is that clear?"

It jumps again.

He dictates two separate logs into the Eye-bot's memory, then ushers it hastily on its way out onto the balcony where it uses its internal teleportation device to fast travel outside the mountainous crater.

The young man, at hearing the soft 'whoosh' of teleporting, crosses into the next room and tries to relax on the sofa to contemplated his cobbled together plans.

"Hey! I got a...super rare Mojave snow globe here! All you gotta do is reach down into my bread slot!"

The Courier, finding himself unable to sit still from his own impatience, paces back and forth from his seat, to the central room, and back.

"Sir's accoutrements are precisely where Sir has left them, and should the Toaster say otherwise, I remind Sir that it is wastrel."

He waits impatiently for the little bots return, even though he knows from previous experience the trip being long and harsh. "I need to begin my master plan before it's too late," the young man zealously reiterates.

Finding no relief in the walking and thinking, he makes his way to the refrigerator, poking through the collection of bottles, food stuffs, and bundles of plants. He raps his hand on the door, sighing.

"Come on, baby, bring me a little sweet, dried fruit. I'll rehydrate all up in that thang."

It isn't concern for the bot that's driving him to the brink of insanity, it's everything else. It's Hoover Dam, it's this place, it's all the grand plans he's going to try to force onto the Mojave. This time, he's overwhelmed himself with his own need to be relevant in a world changing by the hour all around him. "Relaxation," the young man says to himself. "Maybe if I relax, something brilliant will come to me again."

The Courier throws himself into bed, dressed and restless. He tosses and turns for hours trying to force the racing in his mind to cease, or at least slow to a manageable crawl.

"Ooo, baby. Let's turn off the lights and, turn _on_ the lights."

Out of sheer irritation, he throws a pillow across the room, hitting the second light switch square in the buttons.

"Ow! Why do you always have to throw things at me! You never do that to that other tramp!"

"Hey, you watch your circuits, bimbo," the first switch snaps back.

"Both of you be quiet before I give you to the Toaster," he yells. "Some people are trying to get some sleep!" He folds the pillow beneath his weary head, over his ears, screwing his eyes shut.

The loud, metallic sliding of the balcony door bolts tell of the Eye-bots return. The young man cracks an eye open to see the little messenger hovering at his bedside. "Finally!" He sits up without hesitation. "Do you have both messages for me!"

The bot beeps an affirmative.

"Initiate, Playback: Log One."

His speaker crackles to life as the recording starts.

 _Mordecai,_ _this is Arcade._ _I_ _'_ _m on my way_ _with a_ _Vertibird and some_ _..."_ _scienti_ _fic specialists". It sounds like_ _security_ _w_ _i_ _ll_ _s_ _till be_ _an issue_ _, even i_ _f_ _your plan_ _go_ _es_ _off without a hitch._

He frowns at the implication. "Security," he mumbles folding his arms contemplatively. "Why didn't I think of that?" Before the Eye-bot can answer him, he cuts it off. "Don't answer. Initiate, Playback: Log Two."

 _I_ _'_ _ve recruited some NCR troops to help protect_ _this_ _Big_ _Empty._ _N_ _ot sure how to get them_ _all there but I_ _'_ _ll find a way._ _I_ _'ll_ _be there in_ _a_ _week._ _Boone_ _._

The Courier joyously leaps to his feet, accidentally colliding with the Eye-bot. "I _am_ going to do this!" He collects his clipboards of notes from the coffee table, scanning them into the faux AI for hierarchical reorganization, beginning with his old friend's suggestion as the paramount issue, "security".

Between the endless hours of waiting, the Courier makes a meal of two kebabs of Iguana Bits and a Nuka-Cola, presses himself a batch of new bullets for his gun, throws together a few medical bags, weapon repair kits, and skill books, and contemplates the exact width of the crater left by the missing mountain.

"Finished, Sir," the "butler" announces.

"Finally," the human grumps.

From a hidden side slot, a long ream of paper rolls out into his very impatient hands.

He mumbles the typed words under his breath as they print out, finding the outline even more complex than he thought, even with computer-aided organization. His grumpiness increases exponentially as he keeps reading. The Courier throws down the roll in frustration, pondering his predicament. "What am I supposed to tell Arcade, or even Boone, when they get here? 'Look at all this technological garbage I've collected, isn't it great at collecting dust?' " The young man paces the room, attempting a deep breathing exercise. "I saved the Mojave once, and I can do it again. And I'm not doing it alone if I can help it."


	3. In the Hands of Trouble

The week spent waiting for his friends in the SINK is agonizingly boring. Between the habitual fights for his life when he walks out the front door in the morning, and the stress-induced headaches, his grand plans don't seem to be coming together in as workable a fashion as he'd hoped. From atop the rocky alcove of Ulysses' Point, the Courier vacantly stares at the rubble and science labs scattered around the massive crater. With all this quiet time to think, he thinks about what little patience he had must have been shot to pieces at Hoover Dam, because since then, he's been nothing but a bundle of raw nerves. The stricken young man takes a tin of Mentats from his scientist coat and pops three into his mouth, cracking them between his teeth. The rush of sugars and artificial vitamins dull the deep throb in his head.

Assuming he understands the two men as well as he thinks he does, he expects the arrival of Arcade to be fast approaching compared to Boone and his attempt to direct a squadron of NCR soldiers to the Big Mt. In anticipation of their more mundane needs, the Courier gathers clipboards, pencils, and recycled paper found around the various derelict laboratories for the "specialists" to work with. As they would be considered the first of many cogs in the grand mechanism that is "The Master Plan", where would he tell them to apply their genius? Not even he, the architect of this so-called plan, knows which way is up.

Between the extended gun-fighting of Nightstalkers and Cyberdogs, he decides his own intelligence is sufficiently lacking enough to consult a third party. With that, he forces his tired body up to the SINK to begin an inquisition of the CIU. "Now, your programming dictates you are smart about domestic matters when they happen to come up. Since security is going to be taken care of by another group, how should I organize these guest scientists to rebuild Big Mt.?"

"Although I am flattered that you think of me so highly Sir, I'm afraid I was never programmed to 'rebuild' the Big Mountain in any earth-shatteringly large way."

"But you were designed by Mobius to be better organized with a sort of 'superior' form of intellect. Using the term loosely."

"If one were to ask my opinion on the rearrangement of certain internal resources, I would be happy to oblige, Sir."

He sighs, crossing his arms. "That won't do." The green-lit screen of his Pip-Boy gives him an idea. "You must know the schematics of all the assorted facilities around the Big Mt., correct?"

"Of course, Sir. Since your arrival and subsequent exploration of the whole of Big Mountain, I have kept up-to-date records of all facilities."

"Analyze the status of all the facilities, then asses the available resources we have left that have the capacity to repair and rebuild. Make sure to put a special note on the most important facilities."

"Very good, Sir."

The Courier wanders aimlessly through the rooms of the SINK rambling to himself about the project he is about to take, head on. "Once Arcade gets here, I might actually be able to get some work done; to not be so erratic." He pinches the bridge of his nose in an attempt to ignore his pounding headache. "This isn't me. I am Rylan Mordecai Montague, NCR Ranger, freelance medic, and scientist. I'm smart, funny, kind-"

The Courier is interrupted by an alert from the Central AI. "Sir, it appears an unidentified aircraft has entered our airspace."

He scrutinizes the outline on the tabletop holomap. "It's only Arcade, don't worry. The only thing that would voluntarily come here would be me, and the poor friends I lured here."

As the loud hum from the Verti-bird draws near, the Courier makes his way to the front of the Big Mt. building to greet his guests. It touches down on an open piece of land the local fauna seems to be avoiding for the moment. Arcade followed by eight of his "specialists" exit.

"Mordecai," he shouts over the Verti-bird's winding down engines. "This is an amazing place, I'm surprised I've never seen it!"

"I haven't exactly kept it secret, it does that on it's own!"

"I can see that!" He gives the surroundings a cursory glance, never seeing another soul except his old friend.

The other scientists having hushed conversations between themselves, are just as old as Arcade, maybe even older.

"They're old," the Courier observes.

"We're not exactly advertising for new recruits." He gets them back on track to the task at hand. "So what's this about a 'master plan' to rebuild the Mojave? Sounds a little Caesarian if you ask me."

"Don't worry, I have your people here to keep our plan in check, and Boone is bringing a squadron of NCR soldiers to assist in securing the facilities around the Big Mt. I have a sort of meeting room set up in the SINK. Just make your way into the building and I'll begin briefing you on our plans." He leads the scientists inside, where their shock becomes more apparent at seeing the amount of amazingly advanced computer systems and scientific equipment scattered through the building. "This is where you will be conducting all of your research until the facilities are brought back to working order."

He asks the group to follow him into a lift where they're taken to the lower auditorium. The scientists disperse throughout the large room looking over the pristine, but aged equipment and scattered research left by the previous scientists. The Courier walks up the central staircase to the five rooms lining the back wall. "Each of these rooms has been re-fitted with the most basic amenities for two people; two bunks, a sink, a filing cabinet, and a worktable. The middle room is reserved for file storage, and is alphabetized for your convenience."

The scientists ignore his impromptu guided tour, getting down to the business of science.

Arcade stands in the middle of the auditorium, arms folded, eyeballing the room. He is stunned by the sheer amount of intelligence in one room, not counting the specialists of course.

Rylan makes his way out, watching the scientists toying with the surrounding equipment. He motions for Arcade to follow him out to the balcony.

"Good enough?"

"It's better than what they're use to, that's for sure." The former Follower takes a moment to collect his thoughts. "Out of a morbid sense of curiosity, why rebuild the Big Empty facilities? They've worked just fine without human contact for what looks like decades, maybe centuries."

"Because, with all this magnificent technology at our command, we would be able to rebuild the world, Arcade. We will be the major faction vying for power. You remember how the Old World was ran by presidents? No more of that. This one will be run by Science."

"Are you sure _that_ is a good idea? Clearly, science got us into this mess, with, you know, the Atomic Bomb. And don't forget, nukes are science, Mordecai."

"Hence the fact you're here, and not anybody else. You know what the Legion was capable of, and you can stop us from going down their path."

"I think I'd feel honored if it didn't sound like you were going to shout 'true to Caesar' at any moment."

He chuckles, rubbing the heaviness from his tired eyes. "If I ever do, you have my permission to shoot me." The young man goes back inside, crossing over to the self-sustained garden in the next room. He begins to carefully harvest the plants, eating a few bundles here and there as a snack.

Arcade follows him back inside, asking the obvious question. "But why now? Why not before Hoover Dam, or before we even met?"

He inspects the leaves of the plants, seeing new buds already sprouting from where the old ones were picked off. "I never showed you, or anyone else for that matter, because I wanted to make sure that when you came here, you would stay." The Courier ties off the sprouts and beans into bundles, putting them in the refrigerator. "I need you Arcade. I need your scientific experience along with the Enclave scientists you brought with you."

"Because that answer isn't evasive at all," he snarks, waving a hand dramatically.

He huffs a breath of sheer irritation, closing the refrigerator door. "There's a sort of...war going on in this place. There are creatures and robots outside these doors that you have never seen in the Wastes. In fact, the new mutations out in the Wasteland came from here. The Cazadores for instance, haven't you wondered where they came from?"

"They're a random size mutation of the Hawk Wasp, the Followers have already established that."

He smirks at the childish theory. "And the Nightstalkers?"

"Wild coyotes poisoned by snakes that live near radioactive sludge."

"Wrong. They came from here."

"Well I had a feeling the Nightstalker theory was wrong to begin with. But besides that, you expect me to believe that this place is actually inhabited, when one of the most advanced pieces of technology outside of this place contradicts you?" Arcade leans against the door frame, a look of confusion on his face. "As we were flying in, I saw nothing but buildings and giant hexagonal pillars. The radar on the Verti-bird didn't pick up even the slightest movement below us."

Rylan doesn't care to argue the finer points of detection in a place as advanced as the Big Mountain, instead he goes into his bedroom, grabs the binoculars off the top shelf, throws them to the middle-aged man, and walks back out onto the balcony again. He takes out his own pair from his inventory satchel to scan the ground for creatures. "There." He points to an innocuous stretch of land between a large warehouse and a scrap covered hill.

The former Follower points his own pair in the direction of his finger. Far below, a group of three Lobotomites fight a Robo-Scorpion with nothing more than Proton axes. "What...are they?"

"The human-looking things are called Lobotomites. They were the experiments of the previous scientists. They are literally brainless, but their primal instincts are still intact; kill, eat, sleep, the only problem with that assumption is I've never actually seen them rest. Even inside the Cuckoo's Nest."

From his high vantage point, Arcade realizes the dome most likely gave him a sense of false security upon his arrival, but as he looks down at the metallic carnage of the now picked apart Robo-Scorpion, he fully understands why this terrible, yet beautiful place, needs to stay locked away in the middle of nowhere.

As the Lobotomites limp away from the exploded carcass, Arcade lowers his binoculars, frowning. "You mean to tell me this place is inhabited by...creatures... that can't be picked up on radar?"

Rylan laughs, shaking his head. "No, they _are_ detectable by radar, but not yours. You see, there's a force field around the whole of the Big Mt., not just the SINK, which had always been programmed to disguise this place from airborne units like Verti-birds. The only reason you found this place is because I had it set to a lower setting, that way you could detect the structures and enter."

The scientists had all gather in their designated meeting room when they walked back in. One of them approaches Arcade immediately, keeping their conversation a hushed whisper so as not to have the Courier hear. After Arcade attempts to pacify his fellows, he turns to the one in charge. He leans in close, explaining the problem in as quiet a tone as he possible. "There's a problem."

"What the hell is it now?"

"They want to know what you plan for them to do besides re-build the infrastructure?"

Rylan narrows his eyes angrily at his old friend. "How is not knowing every single step of my plan a problem for them?"

Arcade decides to point out the obvious. "Think about it from their point-of-view. A complete stranger with access to Pre-War scientific studies never seen by any Enclave personnel gives them a whole facility to toy with. It is a little suspicious to say the least. Even I was wondering at an ulterior motive."

The Courier frowns, but understands where the people are coming from in the first place. The young man stands at the other end of the CIU, addressing them personally. "Hello fellow scientists, I am Doctor Montague. This project I hope you will take part in is to better this world, not conquer it. We will not rule this new world but oversee it. Instead of using weapons of mass destruction, we use tools of mass aid. We make this world better by rebuilding through peaceful means."

"We're not young and eager to experiment on just anything, Doctor," the eldest of the eight says. "What exactly are we doing here, what will be the end result of all this study?"

"Assuming we agree to stay and help in the first place," one of the women chimes in.

"What if I told you, you'd never have to hide again. Short of creating bombs full of antibiotics, your work as 'specialists' or as 'the Enclave' or whatever you choose to call yourselves, will be completely benign. I've traveled the length and breadth of the Mojave Wasteland, and have made many friends. If one person in one corner of the world knows it was you who cured their sick Brahmin, or healed their limp, then eventually no one will remember your people as anything but a rebuilt version of their old self."

"Propaganda," one of them says. "You're going somehow use propaganda on an illiterate, fearful public who believes the new Boogieman is the Enclave."

"How do you think I became the 'Courier of the Mojave'? Not by hiding in the shadows. I got out their and did something about the world. You can too!"

"We hide for a reason," the elder yells at him. "For as long as the NCR has existed, we've been hunted down and killed! Men, women, children even _suspected_ of being Enclave were killed!"

"Because of your soldiers, not by you," he yells back. "Think about it! How many of you were given the chance to say no to one of your Generals! None of you! Right here," he taps on the holographic screen of the CIU. "Right now, you have the chance to rectify that mistake! They took advantage of your intelligence, why not use it against them now!"

Excluding the bickering appliances, the room grows quiet as the scientists confer amongst themselves.

Rylan turns to Arcade, who stands in the background, hoping they get the message.

"We agree," the elder tells him after a long debate. "On one condition."

"Name it," the Courier unhesitatingly says.

"The NCR doesn't get involved."

"I knew it," the middle-aged Follower mumbles into the hand covering his widened frown.

"Done," Montague assures him.

The group heads back to the lift and off to their work.

"Dammit," the Courier shouts after they've all gone. "Dammit, Arcade!" He gives his friend the stink eye.

"You're the one who invited Boone, not me," he informs him. "Maybe they won't catch on to the fact that they're going to guard Enclave scientists with their lives."

"The bear, Arcade! It's on their armor!" He points to his own chest when the insignia usually is.

"Then have them not wear any. Or at the very least take off their chest-plates. A radical notion I know." He walks off without another word on the matter, leaving the young man to sort it out.

Rylan calls for an Eye-bot with his Pip-Boy. Number six whooshes into existence, entering though the balcony door. He records a message, then inserts a handheld radio into it's back slot to be delivered to Boone. As the spherical bot exits outside, Rylan plops down on the end of his bed, a similar radio within reach, and waits for the radio to relay a familiar voice.


	4. And the Bombs Go Boone

Shouts and gunfire rouse Rylan from what was shaping up to be his first sound sleep since Hoover Dam. In the dimness of the red lit room, he immediately leaps to his feet, trying to get his bearings. On the empty side of his bed, sounds of a raging gun battle stream in through the radio speaker. He mutters a curse, taking the radio in hand. "Boone," he yells into the receiver over the noise. "Are you there!?"

All that answers is the crackling radio straining against the loud automatic gunfire and background rifle shots.

"Boone! Ans-" Rylan is cut off by the sound of an electrified explosion. He hurries to the middle locker for his Elite Riot Gear, strapping the radio to his belt.

"We're pinned down near the northern tunnel entrance," he shouts into the radio over the fighting. "There's giant, yellow scorpions attacking! They look like giant robots!"

Genuine relief rushes through his mind at the sound of his friend's voice. Before running out the front door of the SINK, he takes with him his Anti-Material rifle and Ranger Sequoia from the wall safe.

He finds himself close enough to hear the reloading of their magazines and Boone calling off shots. On an overlook, Rylan shoulders his Anti-Material Rifle, squatting down to improve his scoped aim. He concentrates on the Robo-Scorpions in his sights, feeling his entirety shift as the world grinds to a sudden halt. With a carefully shifting eye, he picks the most lethal parts of the monsters, letting go of his unconsciously held breath.

The high caliber shot breaks off the tail of the closest of the five with ease. The other four find the condition of either a claw or leg severely degraded, hindering many of their quicker attacks against the soldiers.

The scorpion missing its tail jostles back and forth erratically as electricity spits out in all directions. The robot menace seizes up, exploding in a shower of painted metal and spare parts, wounding the others trying to pass over and around it.

Startled by the accuracy of the precise, foreign shots, the soldiers duck behind the pointed rock formations, as Boone looks for the gunman around the tall cliffs. Before he can pin down the general area of the firing, another shot cracks through the still air of the crater, smashing into the torso of the nearer assailant, converting it into scrap and stray energy cells.

With three Robo-Scorpions left, Boone reaches into his inventory pack to pull out a brick of C-4. He pokes his head out from behind cover, rechecking the formation of the robotic creatures. "Triangular," he mentally notes, priming the explosive. The sniper lobs the brick a few feet in front of the yellow robots ordering a retreat. They all take a position farther back as Boone pulls the trigger on the detonator.

The expected explosion is met only with the metallic scuttling of the native technology advancing toward them.

The Republic soldiers attempt to defend their position, but find even with the odds at two to one in their favor, they're still no match for Pre-War scorpion-shaped lasers.

Rylan takes aim at the C-4, setting it off with a single shot.

Two-thirds of the triangle is engulfed in a fiery explosion, sending parts in all directions. The last third is easily brought to heel by NCR bullets. As the smoke and electrified air clears, there is nothing left but charred wiring strewn about the small crater.

The Courier holsters his rifle, deftly making his way down the sloping side of the cliff to greet Boone and his people.

He catches his breath, cautiously coming out from behind cover. Boone sees the young man hopping towards them, the path behind him clear of any other robot attackers. "What the hell were those," he asks of the man as he hurries over to the group.

He gives him the simplest answer he can. "Mobius's Robo-Scorpions."

"How long before there's more?"

"A day. I timed it myself, so I'm not guessing."

"Sir!" A soldier kneeling next to critically wounded soldier grabs her superior's attention. "He's bleeding again!" She squeezes his forearm hard, trying to stop the gush of blood.

"Oh god, there's so much blood," the young soldier whimpers, on the verge of tears.

Allowing his doctoring instinct to take over, Rylan, rushes to the injured man, assessing the wound. He quickly feels up the arm, then stabs a Stimpak through the leather of his gauntlet into the side of his forearm. The Courier watches as the soldier's face relaxes and the bleeding slows down. "The bones in his forearm are shattered." He brings out a Doctor's Bag, fishing out the bandages and scissors. "What happened?"

"His arm was smashed by those...things," Boone clarifies, watching as he cuts through the arm of his uniform to wrap the broken skin as best he can.

"How many more are injured?" The young man moves on to the others sitting in pain around the farther protruding rocks.

"Four."

Rylan moves from one soldier to another at a slow pace, assessing and treating their cuts and breaks as best he can with only basic supplies. "How many did you bring with you?"

"Twelve."

He mentally counts off the people. "Then that leaves seven able-bodied men to help for the time being."

"Two were disintegrated by those robots during the initial ambush out of the tunnel."

"Five then," he amends, huffs his discontentment. "Welcome to my special little plain of hell everyone," he half-jokes, seeing his medical work done.

Even from behind his darkly tinted sunglasses, Boone's look of disapproval is still obvious to him. "Keep their moral up, we only have these ten men." The crossing of his arms only serves to emphasize his mood.

"Geez, Boone." He throws his hands up in a gesture of mock surrender. "I didn't know you were so touchy in your old age."

"The NCR wasn't happy giving me these men in the first place. It took a lot of owed favors on my part." The sniper takes a heavy step towards him, feeling his hands ready to ring his snarky neck. "You're damn lucky I'm even here."

Realizing he's pushed too many buttons already, the Courier holds his tongue, taking point as they steadily trudge through the remnants of the Big Mt. With such a large group they were bound to attract more creatures from the surrounding areas.

At the entrance arch to the Forbidden Zone, many hours into their march, the same soldier calls to her superior about the wounded soldier leaning on her shoulder. "Sir! His arm again!"

Boone matches pace with the stragglers, giving the bandaged arm a thorough examination. "We need to stop," he shouts toward the front of the exhausted group.

The Courier checks the time on his Pip-Boy and in the tinted sky. With the sun going down, any building interior would prove to be a better alternative at the moment than the immediate exterior. The young man pushes open the heavy door to the dark insides of the Forbidden Zone entrance. "In here." He directs the Republic soldiers inside the dimly lit facility. "They can rest while I re-dress their wounds."

The group sets up as best they can in the nearest computer alcove around the corner from the door. The Courier jumps down from the platform toward the nearest set of stairs leading up. He stands at the large computer console, flipping switches and turning dials until a deep thrum of power echoes across the large, empty room. The lamps high above flicker to life a few at a time until most of the shadows are replaced by aged, fluorescent light.

Two lamp bulbs snap from the strain of sudden use causing most, including Boone, to jump into action with their weapons.

"It's just the lamps, there's nothing in here," the Courier reassures the jumpy soldiers, making his way down the stairs.

They slowly put away their weapons, looking about the all too quiet auditorium.

The young man crosses to the computer alcove, moving from soldier to soldier as he re-examines their dressings.

The sniper notices, just like everything else, the design of the room is either near ancient or technologically alien. He's seen his share of weird weapons in his time with the Army and Rylan, but this whole place is like a forgotten museum of military antiques crossed with a graveyard of working computers.

On the advice of Rylan, another soldier jabs a Stimpak into the wounded soldier's forearm. The man stifles a painful scream as best he can from her amateur attempt before the painkiller kicks in.

"Not so close to the bone next time," he tells her, leaving two in her hand. He pinches the bridge of his nose, feeling another migraine coming on. Thinking the outside air might not be too bad, he walks out into the archway, sagging heavily against the concrete wall.

His former companion joins him, standing at the opposite end of the steel doorway. He reaches into one of his many chest pockets, drawing out a cigarette and matches. "You're being a sarcastic jackass." The sniper lights the stick of tobacco between his lips with a swift flick of his wrist, tossing the charred match down the grate of the elevated floor.

Rylan squeezes his eyes shut a few times. "I've always been sarcastic, or have you forgotten already?"

He leans against the solid concrete structure, blowing smoke up into the heavy air of the Big Empty. "Not like this." He stares at the grey cloud hang above his head.

"So should I apologize for hurting their feelings?" The young man rubs his throbbing eyes. "If you haven't realized already, those men in there are greener than Joshua Trees." He folds his arms, willing his migraine away. "Green isn't going to rebuild this mess."

Boone takes a long drag, choosing the right words for the most effect. "Green or not, it's what you got. The decision was made over my head."

"So the New California Republic couldn't be bother to lend me a couple of veterans for security or engineers who worked at the Dam?" The Courier concentrates on the reflections of the red crystal clusters stretching across the far wall, trying to ignore the tension running across his forehead. "If they would bother to think outside the box they put themselves in, we could have exchanged information for man power."

The soldier pushes the smoke out from between his lips, seeing it creep along the red-tinted air. "Hoover Dam was one war with one enemy, the NCR has other shit to deal with."

He gropes around the inside of his side satchel, finding a tin of Grape Mentats. "I had a feeling they were going to screw me over, I just didn't think I'd be so soon." He cracks two tablets between his teeth, relishing the rush of sugar and vitamins masking his aching head.

"They're rebuilding, not screwing you over." Boone flicks the ashes off the end of his cigarette. "Whoever made the decision in the first place thought your vague plan didn't sound credible."

"The only reason the Battle of Hoover Dam was won because _I_ ," The young man jabs his finger into his own chest. "Not their idiot Ambassador Crocker, convinced the Boomers, the Khans, even the god damn Enclave to help the NCR!" He emphasizes each "I" with the same angry gesture. " _I_ saved their President from assassination! _I_ killed Caesar, his camp, _and_ his Legate when we stormed the camps! What the hell do they mean 'not credible'?!"

Boone stares at the farther wall, tracing the outlines of the crystal reflections with his eyes as he thinks of a solution to his friend's conundrum. He finally gives him an answer between puffs. "Ask someone else to help."

Rylan snickers, muttering an unintelligible curse. "Why do you think you're here, Boone? I'm not throwing a damn party you know."

"Not us," he clarifies, keeping his gaze at the far wall. "Them." He takes another puff, flicking away the ashes.

" _If_ they listen," the young man amends.

Boone grinds out his cigarette under his heavy boot, going back inside to tend to his soldiers. "It's getting late."

At dawn, Boone rallies up the men for their continued trek towards the Big Mt. building. He follows a couple steps behind the group, leaving the leading to the Courier.

After a harrowing fight with two Nightstalkers and military grade K-9 unit, the men finally arrived at the central dome. Rylan ushers everyone through the central room into the sitting room.

"Arcade," he curtly prompts, finding said man rooting around the aluminum cupboard over the repair table. "Wounded men."

At the sight of bandaged and bruised soldiers filing in wearily, the Follower gets to work doing what he does best. "Where do you keep your medical supplies?"

The Courier goes to the smaller silver chest at the foot of his bed, bringing the doctoring supplies at his behest.

Arcade unwinds the bandaged arm of the bleeding soldier, seeing a continuous bruise running the length of his forearm. "Is that an Auto-Doc, and does it work?" He points in the general direction of the large cylindrical structure mumbling in its sleep.

"Yeah."

"He needs it."

The young man leads the soldier to the next room without hesitation. "Wake up," he demands of the medical machine.

The Auto-Doc snorts to alertness.

"He needs a physical examination."

"An' rightly so I should think. Alrigh' then, let me just fire up the ol' in'erface for ya." The compartment door slides open.

He stands the woozy Republic soldier inside the cylinder. It slides closed abruptly, nearly catching his fingers.

The whirring and humming of the internal instruments aggravates his resurfacing headache.

"This migh' take a righ' bit longer than I thought," the machine reports to the grimacing Courier.

He massages his temples before returning to Arcade. The two work in conjunction for hours treating cuts, bruises and a mild concussion.

In between those passing hours, Boone has the five unscathed troopers set up a makeshift camp of threadbare sleeping bags in the computer alcove. The six of them clean their rifles with weapon repair kits after having a meager meal of brought food stuffs.

Satisfied with his handiwork, Rylan crosses the room to the busy military congregation, covered in blood and smelling of sterile medical equipment. "Boone."

The sniper regards the intrusion with his usual stoicism, clicking the final piece of his rifle in place.

He motions to the elevator with a nod of the head. "We need to talk."

The soldier hoists his weapon onto his back, following him to the elevator.

The outer door automatically bolts behind them, making the uncomfortable silence between them that much more grueling.

The Courier seeks to rectify his mistake from earlier to break the ice. "Look Boone...I'm sorry. I shouldn't have been an ass to you or the soldiers. I know you said recruits, but I didn't think they'd be so...new." He rubs his forehead, squinting. "I was expecting the NCR to help out a little more."

With arms folded, Boone looks out upon the vast expanse of the Big Mt. facilities scattered haphazardly around the gigantic crater. "We all were."

"It's all we have, you said." He almost begs Boone with his tired eyes. "I need you to train these men. They're green as hell, but I see potential."

The gears of his overworked brain grind away at his friend's request. Training such as his takes years to learn, not days. He leans on the cold railing, thinking. "They're not Recon, but I'll think of something."

The Courier holds his throbbing head, smiling at his progress. Although there were more things that needed to be addressed between them, his stinging temples refuse to let well enough alone. "Good talk." Rylan heads back to the SINK's interior.

"Yeah." He lingers for a moment, wondering why he answered that madman's radio message in the first place.

Finding rubbing alcohol and blood displeasing to his suddenly sensitive nose, he redresses into a pair of Mad Scientist scrubs thinking of taking a nap before his headache gets worse. A Republic soldier holding his bandaged ribs takes up the entirety of said bed however. "Arcade," he shouts into the central room. "There's someone on my bed!"

"He has a cracked rib, don't move him," the medic shouts in reply.

"Then where do _I_ sleep?!"

"On the floor," he snaps back. "Like everyone else!"

He mutters a near silent curse, snatching up a clipboard to count out his inventory.

As Boone approaches the open doorway to the alcove, the five soldiers jump to attention at the sight of their superior, mustering a synchronized salute to him.

"At ease," he commands of the men. "You've all seen first hand the things that live in this place, and how useless our guns are compared to them. Instead of drilling the basics into you, I'm going to teach you sharpshooting. Understood?"

They answer with a unified "yes, Sir" saluting.

"Your first lesson starts at zero five hundred tomorrow morning." He returns the gesture.

Arcade finds the young man at work making a list of everything he has stashed away in his footlocker. "How much do we need?"

"Not much. This place was designed to be self sufficient, and I've been keeping the stocks up here and there."

The doctor takes a peek over his shoulder, scanning the contents of the page. He squints at the rushed penmanship, double checking the figure written on the ledger. "Two hundred seventy-one Stimpaks? One hundred thirty-six Snake Bite Tourniquets?" All down the paper column his supplies read in the triple digits.

Rylan proudly points to the chest at the foot of his bed with his pencil.

The medic manages a soft "wow" from the shock, cleaning the dirt off his glasses. "Maybe the better question would have been 'how much do we have'," he corrects, slipping his spectacles back over his sharp nose. Seeing the excessively large number of everything sitting around gathering dust disheartens him. "Mormon Fort would be stocked for weeks with this kind of supply, even with the amount of sick and injured that come through the gates."

"They will when we get this plan off the ground." Rylan continues to take inventory from the overhead cupboards of the repair and ammunition benches.

Arcade looks over the holographic map of Big Mt. crossing his arms. "So, what's first for this so-called plan?"

The Courier checks off an item on his growing list of supplies, standing next to him with a similar hard expression of contemplation.

"Higgs Village." He points to a large building resembling an ancient aircraft hangar. "It will provide housing for Boone and the soldiers. There's only five houses, but I'm sure that eleven men will be fine, the houses are in a hangar after all." The young man orders the Unit to pull up the surveillance feed he set up prior to their arrival.

Arcade examines the hangar interior with great interest. "It looks like Higgs Village is structurally sound. It could use some cleaning up though."

"Unit," Rylan barks at the artificial butler.

"Sir."

"Bring up surveillance feed of 'Securitron Testing facility'."

The AI unit pulls up a screen showing a facility with four of them in obvious need of rebooting.

"I need to get these working so they can make up for the lack of men the NCR provided. It might even allow us to move around the Big Mt. without much problem. The other inhabitants won't think the Securitrons are threats."

"Possibly, but I'd worry about finding everyone a bed first." He crosses back to the sitting room, where he attends to a soldier complaining about the toaster threatening him in his sleep from his slouched place on the couch.

His plans seem to be coming to fruition, but he knows he needs someone with machine savvy. Someone with a better understanding of Pre-War technology to be exact. Someone he isn't entirely sure of yet.


	5. Old World Memories

The Courier not having realized he fell asleep, wakes up to find himself seated on the corner aluminum chest of his bedroom, the soldier with the wounded ribs still laying on his bed grimacing but resting. He rubs the grogginess from his eyes, trying to remember what he was doing before he woke up. The clipboard sitting precariously on his lap clatters to the ground. "Inventory," he reminds himself, picking up the board and setting it off to the side. Deciding that a quick stroll might keep him awake long enough to finish his counting, the young man wanders aimlessly through the nearby rooms, stepping carefully over the strewn about uniforms laying on the floor.

The Big Mountain facilities keep their own internal time, with the CIU being no exception it seems, although this simple fact usually escaped him with his constant running around. The peace and quiet of the dimly lit laboratory and napping appliances puts him at ease. Even the snoring from the various military occupants has a soothing effect. With nary a sign of Arcade in the sitting room or computer alcove, he assumes him to be fast asleep with the crotchety Enclaves in the lower auditorium.

He makes his way into the central room, places his hands on the Central AI and lets out a sigh of relief. The young man realizes he's making progress, albeit slow progress. "Baby steps Rylan. You killed Benny and saved the Hoover Dam with baby steps, why would this be any different?" He stifles back a yawn, reaching into the breast pocket of his scrubs for a tin of Mentats. Finding none within reach, he detours to the vending machines at the entrance alcove, retrieving a Homemade Nuka-Cola. The Courier breaks the wax seal, chugging the bottle as if it were the last bottle in the whole crater.

Rylan crosses through the central room out onto the balcony, overlooking the Big Mt. At the very top of the crater's jagged lip, the brilliant gold sun rises to bring forth a new day. He takes a seat at the nearer balcony bench, staring off into the distant early morning. A warm, faintly metallic breeze brings back his splitting migraine, and a memory.

A bad memory.

"Rye, come and play!" _A girl_ _no more than eight_ _scream_ _s_ _out happily_ _as she r_ _u_ _n_ _s_ _around the corner of a_ _condemn_ _ed_ _b_ _uilding._ _The skirt of her rag dress flutters wildly around her knees as a warm, spring wind whistles between the broken bricks and windows._

 _A y_ _oung_ _er_ _Rylan chase_ _s_ _after her_ _in dirty clothes and bare feet_ _, dodging rubble a_ _nd rebar_ _._ _He knows her hiding places amongst the slanting building well, but she is always quicker._

 _The_ _little_ _girl_ _in her brown pig-tails_ _r_ _u_ _n_ _s_ _t_ _hr_ _o_ _ugh_ _the crumbl_ _ing_ _doorway of an old apartment block._ _She stops just inside the rotting frame of the doorless entry, sticking her tongue out at him._ "You can't catch me!" _The girl hot-foots in towards the back of the empty first floor, climbing hand over foot up the awkwardly repaired brick wall._

 _Rylan fr_ _ee_ _ze_ _s_ _at the_ _apartment's_ _entrance._ _His hyped brain pushes him to keep running after her, but his feet suddenly won't move, no matter how much he wills them._

 _She hangs off the wall, with one hand, taunting him again._ _The_ _little_ _girl beckon_ _s_ _him adamantly_ _to enter._

 _The little boy still can't move his legs. He wiggles his toes, but even the small appendages feel as heavy as lead ingots._

 _The girl hops down from the wall, traversing the fractured stairs to the second story._

 _The boy wills his right foot to cross the threshold of the doorway, finally succeeding after many agonizing moments._

 _A_ _loud crack_ _from the sky rings_ _through the_ _destroyed city streets_ _._

 _The baffled boy searches the clear, blue sky for the source of the sound, as the earth beneath the dilapidated apartment rumbles deep and violently. The vibrations knock him off his feet and onto his backside._

 _From the upper story, the little girl screams out in horror, frantically running back down the cement staircase._

 _Rylan watch_ _es_ _his sister r_ _u_ _n_ _ning_ _towards him_ _, her smaller hand_ _reach_ _ing_ _for his_ _while the building breaks apart above her head._

 _His whole_ _body_ _freezes up at the tragedy unfolding before him_ _._ "Sammy!" _He yells her name, staring at the concrete structure falling apart all around her._

 _A large chunk of concrete_ _cr_ _ashe_ _s down_ _in front of him_ _, showering him in red splatters and grey, powdery dirt_ _._ _The warm droplets on his face don't register with his traumatized brain until_ _a stream of blood pour_ _s out_ _from_ _under the concrete rubble_ _, trickling into the cracks of the sidewalk_ _._ _Rylan stares helplessly at the pile and the hidden remains of his sister, Samantha_ _._

 _A middle-aged woman_ _c_ _o_ _me_ _s_ _running from_ _around the corner._ "Rylan! Where's your sister!? What's happened!?" _Still in_ _shock,_ _his mother_ _tries to_ _sh_ _a_ _k_ _e the sense back into_ _him_ _._

 _It_ _i_ _s then that the world around_ _him no longer exist_ _s._ _It drifts away into nothingness, and all he can hear is the beating of his heart in his ears. The boy_ _c_ _a_ _n't hear his mothers calls, he c_ _a_ _n't_ _feel_ _the blood of his_ _sister_ _on his cold face, he can't see the rubble she's buried beneath_ _._

Arcade kneels before the young man staring off into the distance. He waves a hand in front of his glassy-eyed stare, softly calling his name. "Mordecai." The Follower snaps his fingers near both his ears goading no response whatsoever. "Mordecai."

He thinks back to his time at Mormon Fort, remembering these same symptoms from the survivors of the Battle of Nelson. The only treatments he knows of is to either let the episode pass, or use "applied psychology", as some of the other Followers coined it, which means only one person in the whole of Big Mountain can help him.

Arcade rushes back through the balcony door into the waiting elevator. He hurries to the computer alcove, stepping over the other soldiers sleeping around Boone. The medic awkwardly reaches down, shaking his beefy shoulder. "Boone," he zealously whispers. "Wake up!"

He jerks his hand off his shoulder with a sharp shrug, drifting back to his sound sleep.

"Boone!" The medic shakes his shoulder in a more insistent manner. "Rylan's blacked out again!"

The sniper crawls out of his sleeping bag, taking his neatly folded beret from his satchel and placing it back on his shaved head before doing anything else. "I'm not a doctor."

"But you understand war, so hurry up," the Follower commands.

He slips on his sunglasses, keeping in step with the taller man.

The pair of them find a slouched Courier with silent tears streaming from his emotionless eyes.

Boone takes a knee before Rylan, examining his reddened face with great intent. He figures out exactly what's wrong from the distant look in his eye. The soldier carefully reaches into the young man's side satchel, bringing out a weathered rag doll in pigtails. "You need to snap out of it," he tells the far away boy. "Right now." Boone places it at his feet where his line of sight has drifted.

Rylan stares down at the object on the ground blinking his eyes in rapid succession. "It _was_ my fault," he rasps over the forming lump in his throat. He picks the small toy up, squeezing it in his shaking hands. "Now she's..." The Courier's tears roll down his haggard face and drip onto the grate floor. "I could have saved her."

Boone understands that kind of guilt. You bury it so deep inside you turn bitter and resentful, and blame yourself for things long since passed. He stands, dragging the young man to his feet and looking him square in the eye. "You wouldn't have had the chance. Accept it, Rylan."

Something about his words rings through that hollow memory, jolting him back to the present. The absentee leering into the distance is replaced by determined introspection as the memory fades away. Rylan turns over the doll before slipping it back into his inventory. "Thanks."

"Get some sleep," he says to his young friend, heading back inside.

Rylan agrees, going back inside for a quick bite to eat. He roots around the refrigerator, careful not to wake up the Biological Research Station.

Arcade stays within an arms reach of him the entire time as a precaution. "You never told me you had Posthumous Trauma and Stress Disorder."

He furrows his brow in confusion, unscrewing the lid off a large jar of Salient Green, sniffing the contents. "Because I don't."

"Then it must have been a very powerful memory that resurfaced. That explains why your migraines were so frequent."

"I never told you I had migraines," the young man defensively points out, sucking the green jelly from his fingers.

"I know a migraine when I see one, I've had plenty of them, and so has Boone."

"Well geez, between the both of you, I can't even have a headache in private." He foregoes utensils for the duration of his light snack, much to Arcade's dismay.

The Follower crosses his arms, ready with a quip at the end of his sharp tongue. "If I remember correctly, you said something to the effect of 'that's what friends are for' almost a year ago."

"You should have been an Arbiter instead of a doctor," he tells him, finishing off the jar.

"I never was a doctor in the first place, I was a researcher, remember? Now, are you going to go to sleep, or do you need to be babysat?"

"I'm too awake to sleep, I need to do something." He absentmindedly stares at the refrigerator before fetching his Anti-Material rifle and heading towards the exit. "I'm going to fix those damn Securitrons."

The doctor checks his Plasma Defender at his belt. "Lead the way."

He stops at the threshold of the sliding door, asking the obvious. "Since when do you do robotics?"

"I do research for the Followers of the Apocalypse and this _is_ a House Securitron after all."

Seeing the argument already lost before it could begin, Rylan shakes his head, walking out the front door.

Within two hours, the NCR recruits mill around near the vending machines, having very animated conversations as they wait for their commanding officer to show.

Boone approaches them, returning their salutes. "Move out."

Gun shots cracking off in quick succession from the distance disturbs the natural stillness outside the Securitron facility.

"I see the soldiers are awake." The Follower singes a finger on a wayward spark that has him curse his misfortune quietly. "And ready to shoot anything that moves."

The Courier contemplates the different colored wires in each hand still connected to the open chest. "It's practice." He touches them end to end cringing. To his surprise, no electrical reaction occurs, so he roots around inside for another pair.

Already peeved by the minor shock treatment he has received by the bare circuits of the robot, he mumbles his disbelief under his breath.

The young man lets the blonde stew in his own discontentment for the bear soldiers carefully lifting out a green wire from the chest cavity.

"Again!"

Half of the recruits present run toward the thrown tin cans as they clatter to the ground.

The ever stoic Boone grows increasingly impatient with their utter ineptitude for sharpshooting. If the greenhorns he brought at the behest of Major So-In-So from Camp Wherever weren't thrust into his care, they'd be one of the hundreds of commonplace infantry with no skill other than the ability to stand guard at some obscure post. He, himself, as a sniper, can see that clearly.

"Ready," he shouts across the line of five.

The soldiers stand wide apart in pairs, the partners who had fetched the cans readying themselves once more.

"Aim!"

The seconds with weapons in hand do as their commander tells them, lining up their sights with the distant hills along with Boone.

"Fire!"

Three cans are catapulted through the air, but only one gives off a distinctive metallic crashing-ding as a bullet knocks it side sideways still in the air.

The Recon sniper gives a dissatisfied groan from between his clenched teeth as he lowers his rifle. "Again!"

Arcade and Rylan burst through the double doors of the facility, defenseless and scared. Either man tries to outpace the other, all the way back to the SINK dome.

A berserking Securitron races out after them screaming nonsensical noises in lew of the standard robotic orders. The disconnected guns click madly in the direction of his two chosen targets.

Approaching fast along his rifle sight, the Courier, Arcade, and a malfunctioning House Securitron speed across the crater dirt after one another. He watches as the robot closes the distance with the undeniably out-of-shape researcher, wrapping its tri-fingered claw around his neck.

The rolling weapon, hoists the skinny man off the ground with ease, forcing the young man into action with the nearest weapon he can scrounge up.

Their fearless leader swings a stick at the hulking, metal assailant, acting as the perfect distraction for the soldiers. Boone rallies his men to practice their shooting at the open back panel of the crazed robot as it swats temperamentally at the attacking Courier. "Fire!"

Rifle shots crash into the naked innards of the House construct, ripping through the wires inside until it seizes and falls forward.

"We were so close," the Courier laments, sadly watching the Securitron sparking face down in the dirt.

Arcade violently clears his throat, yanking his coat collar from the vice-like grip of the claw. "It choked me," he rasps, picking himself up from the dirt while holding his sore neck.

"But we were close!" The young man slumps the whole way back to the SINK. "I'll figure out something eventually. They're just over-sized robots after all."

The researcher louses around the entranceway rubbing his rosy red neck and clearing his throat.

Boone notices him watching the soldiers practice as he paces up and down the cement walkway. "Arcade." He waves him over with two fingers.

The Follower approaches the constantly peeved sniper, suppressing a mild coughing fit. "Whatever it is, the answer is still no."

A frown pulls down on his already unhappy face. "I want the rundown on this tech your people are working on," he demands in an even tone.

Arcade can't help but laugh at his statement.

Boone's face keeps it's natural scowl, only this time he aims it in his direction.

"Since when has knowing what's going on ever been an important part of actually doing," the researcher asks him. "We did fine for two years following someone with no idea what _he_ was doing most of the time."

"It's not just me I have to worry about. If we're the ones putting our asses on the line to protect some scientists, I need to know what they're doing and when."

The Follower removes his glasses, polishing the dust off of them with the corner of his coat. "What exactly has our fearless leader told you?"

"All he's telling me is train."

"Then train." He squints through the lenses, placing them back on the bridge of his nose. "How hard is that to understand?"

"I'm not a god damn moron that salutes anything with a cluster. He has you and those friends of yours, he's bringing in Veronica and the whole Brotherhood. He won't need a handful of recruits in the way, so we better make ourselves useful."

"You're forgetting three things, Boone." He counts them off one by one on his long, bony fingers. "Veronica hates him, he invited you first, and do you realize how large this place is?"

"I still need to know," he reiterates without hesitation. "It doesn't matter how much of it I won't understand."

"You've changed." Arcade purses his thin lips to hide the smile creeping across his face. "For the better, I think." Before he leaves him to his soldiering, the researcher's natural snark gets the last word between them both. "By the way, you and your...fellows in arms are going to be staying in Higgs Village."

"And where the hell is that," Boone wonders, taking his words with a grain of salt as he always does.

The middle-aged blonde points with his long finger at the dusty warehouse-sized barn. "Ex nihilo nihil fit." With that last bit of Latin sarcasm, the man heads inside the dome to see about the recovering wounded.

He sees their young leader in conference with his scientific comrades as he passes through the CIU into the sitting room.

Three of the four around the couch are eating standard military rations, probably brought with them he surmises, while the last dozes lazily in one of the sleeping bags left by his comrades.

Arcade grabs a doctor's bag from the silver chest, setting to work on the recovering patients, all the while listening in on the conversation between the two parties. From what he can decipher of the murmurs floating in from the other room, the throng of brains are all dumbfounded as to where to begin. Besides their own individual specialties, any of the Pre-War experiments the former occupants were conducting is well past their experience, even with two hundred years of immaculately kept notes.

"You see, some of their experiments are redundant," one of the kinder Enclave tells the Courier, handing him a stack of dusty manila folders. "Even downright pointless to us as the world stands currently." He opens the first two folders to emphasize. "Most of these advancements were initially designed to assist in national defense against foreign armies and nuclear warheads, so any research based off of their notes is outmoded."

"What about the holograms, or the weapons, or even the creatures stalking around the Big Mt.," an over-encumbered Courier wonders, running through his mental list of successful experiments.

"Not to be the one to state the obvious," the elder says. "But holograms mean nothing, cardiac dampening devices aren't practical for public use, and these biological abominations running helter-skelter are as useful as a Pre-War sideshow attraction."

The young man is too stubborn to admit defeat at such an early stage of his plan, but as he pokes through the selected files in his arms, their problem becomes all too clear.

Arcade finishes his round heading into the central room. He seems an opportunity to insert himself into the conversation, but decides to brush up on his reading instead, allowing the Courier to mentally duke it out with very opinionated scientists.

"This place has been around since before the Great War," the young man tells them with the slightest hint of exasperation. "There _has_ to be _something_ of use around here."

"Do the derelict facilities have more of their own studies," an older female scientist asks. "If there are successful products out of use, we could reverse engineer those and use them as a starting point for our own endeavors."

"But we've already established the uselessness of their previous experiments," another one of them reiterates in a slightly irritated tone.

The circular arguments go back and forth for over an hour until they all agree to go through older, failed experiments to see if they can be improved. The former Enclave scientists, head off back to their auditorium, with two of them requesting escorts to the nearest of the unused facilities.

Rylan readily agrees, ignoring the obvious problem it poses for the time being. A familiar throbbing radiates across his brow from the mounting stresses. He rubs his temples, crossing right to the refrigerator. "They have no idea what they're doing," he mentions bitterly, holding a chilled bottle of water to his forehead.

"So I've gathered." Arcade flips to the next page of his medical book.

Rylan stands at the CIU silently looking down at the holograms of the buildings. Seeing no other viable option at the moment, he resigns to his last resort. "I'm getting the Brotherhood of Steel in on this project." He pauses to amend his statement. "And Veronica."

Arcade closes his book, narrowing his skeptical eyes at the boy. "The same Veronica that said she'd kill you the next time you crossed paths?" This turn of events doesn't come as a surprise to Arcade. He knows the Brotherhood has a much better understanding of Pre-War technology than even the NCR government. In order to get to what remained of their resources however, he'd have to go through an infuriated Veronica.

"Think about it, Veronica now heads her own branch of the Brotherhood. She made her base in Vault nineteen ever since that place was vacated by the Powder Gangers without warning. Lucky for her, no one dared touch it in case they might have come back, which they never did. There's a fair amount of them left, even if you exclude her."

"And are you," He queries in his most serious tone, arching an eyebrow.

"If I have to, not before." Rylan summons an Eye-Bot to the SINK interior with his wrist-bound computer.

A short time later, number eight floats down from the metal staircase, awaiting Rylan's commands.

He records a very sincere, very carefully worded message for the ticked off former Scribe, sending the bot on its way.

"The Brothers left after the original Bunker massacre aren't going to be my biggest fans. _If_ they decide to come, I'm going to need a proxy, or at the very least an Arbiter when addressing Elder Veronica so her pneumatic gauntlet doesn't knock out my teeth."

"Let me guess," the researcher snipes. "It going to be me."

"Yep."


End file.
